don't wanna rush | oscar diaz

lo eterno y lo fugaz

Summer means a lot of things. The streets are hot, his girl's working extra hours, and, most pressing for Oscar, Cesar isn't occupied seven hours of the day anymore. It's a little bit of a dilemma, considering his tía works full-time, his mom's on dope again, and his cousin Vero hates him.

"I will pay you," he says, slowly, standing in the doorway to the kitchen while Cesar runs straight through to the backyard, where an old playground set awaits. In front of him, Vero's crossing her arms. "You're like. Twelve. You need the money."

"I'm fourteen, asshole," Vero says. She's scowling at him, and Oscar doesn't have time for this. He's supposed to talk to Cuchillos today, and he knows better than to keep him waiting. He lives in a nicer part of town, clawed his way out of Freeridge with his hands bloody. They're not meeting there, but at a diner nearby that's used to the sight of Cuchillos—six-three, built like a linebacker, covered head to toe in tattoos.

He won't ever admit to it, but Vero's probably at the same level of intimidating. At fourteen she's like a colt, all long limbs. But she's got a meaner scowl than half the Santos Oscar knows, and even if she talks a lot of shit she can back it up just fine. She's got the attitude of any Diaz, meaning she's mean and doesn't apologize for it.

It stings a little bit. He remembers them getting along. But that was awhile ago, when he—well. Oscar's never really felt like a kid. But when he was younger, at least, he could pretend to. And back then, when his tía Alejandra would watch them on weekends, that was the easiest time to pretend.

He doesn't miss it. He'll swear his life on it. Sure, if he were seventeen and anything other than a d-boy, his life would be a lot different. But that's not his life, so he's got to deal with it. And he is. That doesn't mean his cousin isn't being difficult.

"I'll give you twenty bucks."

"Forty," she says, and picks at her nails. She has them filed sharper than any girl needs them, Oscar privately thinks. She's in a Freeridge High tee and shorts, barefoot. The kitchen smells like citrus, and behind her he can see a plate with clementines, already peeled.

"You want forty dollars to keep him from busting his head open out back? You deadass?"

"Did you know," Vero says, voice dripping with vitriol, "that nannies charge twenty dollars an hour?"

"This ain't Brentwood," Oscar says. He's going to end up paying her forty dollars but that doesn't mean he's not going to put up a fight. "We're blood."

Vero's the only person in the world who's got this 'if looks could kill thing' down pat. Oscar doesn't admit this though.

"When are you coming back?"

"Tonight."

"A qué horas?" she says, voice flat.

Oscar tries not to shout. Says, his teeth grit, "Before it gets dark."

"It's two," she says, "it don't get dark until eight. That's six hours. You should be paying me—"

"Here," he says, finally, digging into his pocket and pulling out a twenty and two tens. When he looks at her she's got her hand out already, expectant like she knew he'd cave. Barely took any effort on her part. If she weren't so annoying he'd find it a little funny. "He comes home with a papercut and I'm taking that shit back."

"No, you're not," she says, tucking the bills into her back pocket. "Can you leave? I'm supposed to be babysitting."

"I swear to God," he starts, stops himself. "You're so annoying—"

"Bye Oscar," she says, shoving past him and towards the back door, "lock up when you leave."

Oscar counts to ten before he heads out. Locks the door behind him anyway.

He makes it to the diner with thirty seconds to spare, takes care of his shit, and shows up at his tía's before the sun's fully set. He brings pizza, because the money he gave Vero has been more than replenished with his cut. Chucho's home, too, and his tía likes having all her kids under one roof. She stays saying it like that too—Todos mis chiquillos, she tells him, making him stoop to kiss her goodbye, under my roof, safe and fed.

On the ride home, Cesar's talking his ear off—something about building a fort while they waited for dinner to finish cooking, Vero patiently listening to every single instruction Cesar gave her. He's an easy-going kid but he can get demanding when it comes to his vision, it seems like. Oscar's gotten roped into building him pillow forts, too; Cesar doesn't hold back on the critiques.

By nine o'clock the kid's in bed, though, and when he checks on her his ma's curled up in bed, TV blaring Caso Cerrado of all things. Looks exhausted, whether from work or from withdrawal Oscar doesn't know.

"What," she snaps when he stares, a little nauseous, at a couple made up of some middle aged dude and a sixteen year old being grilled by Ana María Polo.

"How can you watch this shit," he says, unthinking, and is more than surprised when it makes her laugh.

"Watch your mouth," she says, catching herself. She's prettier when she smiles. She'd look better if she weren't clearly using, so thin the washed out light of the TV makes her look skeletal. Cesar looks like her, or at least the few pictures of her that she's got hidden in the back, the ones where she's young and vibrant, Freeridge not having taken all she could give and then some. It's not like she's anywhere near old, after all, barely nineteen when Oscar was born. "Where's your brother?"

"Asleep," he says. Wavers for a second before he says, "I'm heading out."

She raises her eyebrow. Maybe Oscar looks like her, too; just not that often. "A dónde?"

"Gonna see my girl."

She snorts. Says, "You too young to be talking like that. Your li'l girlfriend don't got better things to do? 'S late."

"It's barely nine."

"Uh-huh," she says. "I ain't bailing you out, you get into trouble."

"Right," he says. There's always a low-level buzz of irritation around his mother, doesn't matter how he tries to ignore it. High or sober she's like this—picks at flaws until they're scabbing over, Oscar remembering her words no matter how innocuous they might've been. "Ahí voy."

"Alright," she says, and then, before he can finish pulling the door shut, "be safe."

When he looks at her, her gaze is fixed to the TV. He takes a deep breath. It smells like cold cream, some Walgreens brand she's been using forever. He says, "Night, ma," and closes the door before she can look at him. Tries not to think about it for the rest of the night.